Thanks to Stay-at-Home Dad Alex, who emailed me this link. Good stuff.
Monthly Archives: June 2008
This is Bobo, my dad. MP’s grandpa.
He brings me things. Like bags of laundry. Because not only do I owe him for the college years when I dragged 20 tons of my own dirty laundry home, he’s now a full-time RVer and afraid of getting lice from the communal laundry room. I’m fairly certain hot water and a spin cycle would take care of any issues, but I’m totally on the same page. The familial phobias, they run deep.
And just the other day, he stopped into my office and brought me this.
He also clips articles he thinks I should read — torn pages from Money Magazine and USA Today and other random publications from the coffee shop or the dentist’s office, with topics ranging from finances, food, health and single parenthood. For MP, it’s the Sunday Funnies.
Bobo’s favorite catch phrases include, “THAT’s gonna itch when it dries,” “Bull ROAR!” “Drier than a popcorn fart,” “Love me, love my dog,” and the constant crowd-pleaser, “I’m not picking … I have an itch.” MP thinks he’s absolutely hilarious.
He’s nothing if not a character.
He comes to watch her at gymnastics each Friday, and afterward we go to lunch. She has come to count on Sunday night dinners with Bobo. Family meals are a big deal at the Pie House.
Come summer, we fish.
And she loves him. And he, her.
Then there’s Poppy, my stepfather and MP’s other grandpa.
Poppy lives next door with Grammy. We all have dinner together a few times a week. He loves MP with the intensity of a thousand suns. The two are kindred spirits. They talk about all kinds of things — sometimes without speaking a single a word.
They take tractor rides and watch the sunset. Or in this case, giant piles of dirt.
And when he shoots gophers from the porch, MP begs to collect them. I don’t let her. (We’re not COMPLETE savages.) She DOES make the rounds with Grammy, however. I provide surgical gloves and masks.
Ah, the bonding opportunities country livin’ affords.
Mostly, he is her constant. In the absence of a father, he is the one who’s there every day, just a few paces away, right next door.
MP adores him. And he, her.
So, this Father’s Day, as is tradition, we will be celebrating Bobo and Poppy, and Grandfather’s Day. MP will make cards and we’ll split the day between the two. And I’ll say a little prayer of thanks that MP has two wonderfully colorful male role models in her life. They provide important things her single mama doesn’t.
Like fart jokes and dead gophers.
Okay, like dead gophers.
This just in: Bought MP a new pair of white tennies. Within eight hours, she’d stepped in dog poo. Just like Alanis Morrisette and that ray-ee-ain on her wedding day.
This just in: I’m SO diggin’ ‘Douche.’ As in ‘Douchebag.’ It’s crass. I don’t wanna let it go. It’s perfect. Why else would young boys everywhere claim it as their primary sound effect? DOUCHE. 10 points.
This just in: Denise Richards and her new single mom TV show? Douche. (I rest my case.)
This just in: Only one sticker has fallen off Bossman’s car. To the best of my knowledge, he’s still driving around with one on his driver’s side mirror. Excellent.
This just in: Mommypie did NOT, in fact, have a heart attack last month. After a lengthy doctor’s appointment which included multiple lab tests, symptoms were determined to be a result of ACID REFLUX DISEASE. Yay. Unpleasant, but waaay better than the alternative. Thanks Doogs for all your support through my [tragically Clooney-less] ER episode.
This just in: My Economic Stimulus Check. Yeeeee Hoo!
Aaaannd, drum role please …
This just in: Holy crap! I MADE THE LOCAL NEWS!
Today, 11:54 a.m. | Phone call @ work
Bobo: Hey. Uhhh, (chuckle) I forgot why I called you.
Me: Ummm … about your laundry?
Me: The storage unit?
Me: The gallery opening?
Me: Ummm …
Bobo: Oh, incidentally, I need to talk to you about your portfolio … I was talking to Jim Riv …
Me: Mmm hmm. Dad. Was that what you called about?
Bobo: Noooo …
Me: (multi-tasking) Are you coming over for Grandfather’s Day?
Bobo: Oh, sure … when is it?
Me: Uh, Sunday I think. (looks at calendar) Yeah, Sunday.
Bobo: Okay, we’ll get a couple ribeyes.
Me: Sounds great.
Bobo: I’ll pick up that movie, Dirtbags …
Bobo: Dirtbags, Dirt Bucket … oh, you know …
Me: The BUCKET List??
Bobo: Yeah, The Bucket List.
I feel I should document yesterday’s snowstorm. Yes. SNOW. STORM. On June 11.
MP was LOVIN’ it. Here she is catching snowflakes on her tongue. You can’t see her because apparently just before a camera dies, it sees colors, lots of pretty colors. And then it travels down a loooong tunnel toward a beautiful bright light. And if it’s led a good and just life, it comes back as a discounted iPhone.
Our drive to work looked like this.
After dropping MP off at preschool, Longshoreman Mommypie was COLD and WET and none too thrilled to be wearing wool in JUNE.
Personally, Mommypie prefers cold and wet to look more like this.
Not to worry. Mommypie’s favorite workplace appliance came to the rescue and saved not only the hair, but the day.
And all was well in Pie Town.
In the name of all that’s blogholy, I can now admit, I’ve completely lost touch with reality. I just asked the order-taker-guy at the drive-thru window if I could TAKE HIS PICTURE.
Me: “I need to get your picture … ” (holding up camera phone)
Him: “Why is that?”
Me: “Uh … to send it to my friend.”
Me: “She really loooves Taco Time.”
Him: “I see.”
Me: “And she doesn’t live here.”
Him: “I see.”
Me: “Mkay, thanks!”
So, not last week but the week before, 24 robbers came knocking on my door I had a little brush with fame and fortune.
Billionaire Media Mogul Ted Turner was in town and was the guest of honor at a casual work thing. I’ll refrain from publishing my long-standing personal opinion of the guy — he knows where I work (and could probably have me killed fired). Suffice it to say, he has a long … history in this town. Yeah.
Anyhoo, I asked my boss in advance if he’d try to get a photo of me with Mr. T. In all honesty, I had no desire to actually MEET the man, but had high hopes for a shot of me making rabbit ears behind him. Or at least doin’ the air kiss. Instead, as I jockeyed for position, Bossman unexpectedly shoved me into our special guest, held up my camera phone and asked if I could have a picture with him. I think he might have even said, “she reeeaally wants one.” Did I mention he’s a JACKASS?
Duuuh. Nice to meet you Ted.
Are you feelin’ the HOLY AWKWARD MOMENT yet? Check out my face — that’s a cross between utter mortification and mighty restraint right there, people. Because even at this precise moment, I wanted to make the crazy face. What is wrong with me? (Besides that hair. Ecch.)
Then Ted and I had a little convo. Within 20 seconds, (girlfriend? wife?) Not Jane flew in from the sidelines. Ted, now wedged between Not Jane and Crazy Stalker Chick (that would be me), and clearly even MORE uncomfortable, fell over himself to introduce her. And I wanted so badly to break out laughing, because knowing that even Ted Turner is on a short leash is … funny.
Eventually event-goers made their way to the bar.
The people watching was most excellent.
And a glass of wine later, Grammy called to say she forgot to pick up MP and could I do it, seeing as preschool closed in 10 minutes and I was closer than she was?
Back to Mommy As Usual.
First, she asked for some tape.
Next, she asked how to spell ‘no.’
And then we hit another milestone.
The first KEEP OUT sign.
Not only did MP post one on HER door …
She posted one next door at the entrance to Grammy and Poppy’s room too.
Grammy and Poppy let her watch cartoons to her heart’s content in that room. And eat ice cream in their bed. So Mommy is not allowed in there either.
Because Mommy is a buzzkill.
My little girl, she’s growing up.
This weekend I watched the movie P.S. I Love You. If you haven’t seen it, (and I think I can safely say this without giving anything away) it’s about a woman who loses her husband to a brain tumor. I bawled the ENTIRE movie. Literally. There might have been short 10 – 15 minute reprieves scattered throughout, but for the most part, I nearly drowned in my tears. And by the time it was over, seeing through stinging eyelids that had swelled to the size of golf balls proved quite the accomplishment. With every thought, the pounding headache I felt only intensified.
I knew the storyline was going to hit close to home. Granted, the man in MY storyline, the man I loved, was my ex. And we were never married. And although he was sick, it was his failing liver and not a brain tumor that ultimately did him in. Nevertheless …
By the time I crawled into bed, my spent body huddled under the covers, I realized that although I’ve always been a sucker for sappy movies — even terribly bad ones — I now watch them for reasons very different than those of just a few years ago.
I watch them to cry. Because I don’t do much of that otherwise. I graduated from the School of Suck it Up a long, long time ago. Which serves me well as a single parent. Holding it together is crucial for our survival.
If I don’t, who will?
But if I’m honest I have to admit sometimes I need a break. Sometimes I want to, need to, scream my lungs out. Because I’m still angry at my ex for leaving. For dying. For leaving his daughter fatherless. I want to slap him and punch him and embrace him forever, all at once.
So I watch the movies to confront my sadness. To allow me to FEEL the pain. No matter how messed up the end of our relationship was, I miss him. And I have to honor that reality.
I watch them to heal. And to renew my faith that love CAN persevere. That magic can still happen. And to spark a longing that signals maybe, someday, I’ll be ready for it again. And maybe it’ll find me once more.
In the meantime, I’ll continue my weekend love affair with Blockbuster. And Advil. And lots and lots of tissue.
Foolery confessed to being one and posted this awesome clip. (One of these days I WILL come up with a different adjective. Just not tonight. I had two Bud Lights at dinner and five hours later, am hung over. I am officially … 40.)
Even though a good number of you may have already seen it, I’m jumping on the bandwagon and reposting it. Because, albeit, I have no idea HOW it happened, I too am a New Media Douchebag.
Plus, it’s early Sunday morning, and Pie House Rules clearly state phoning it in is allowed.